The Time for Caution is Over
by Diary
Summary: At William Compton's estate, Thomas Tallis meets Henry Hastings and tries to sort out his feelings toward William. Complete.


Disclaimer: I do not own The Tudors.

* * *

The first strange sight Thomas Tallis sees is a little boy in a red dress sitting on the floor, sucking on sugar coated fingers and staring placidly at him. He's a small child with short, dark blond hair and hazel eyes. Briefly, Tom wonders if he is Compton's son, but no, the lord had claimed to have never lain with a woman. He prefers to believe Compton wouldn't lie about the minor things.

His next thought is that the child is a servant's, but no, the dress is much too fancy for that, and no servant's child would stare so openly at a person they didn't recognise.

"Tom," Compton says, appearing, and then, he catches sight of the boy.

"Papa William!" The child exclaims, jumping up and holding his hands out.

"Hello, my little one," Compton says, picking the child up. "Is Mama alright?"

Nodding, the boy traces sugary fingers across Compton's face. "Mary's sick."

That causes a look of fear to flash in the lord's eyes, and Tom wonders if he should make his presence known or discreetly slip out. "Do you know what's wrong with her, Henry?"

"She cries all the time," Henry answers, crossly. "Mama wants Papa William to take me while she takes the baby to away from Father. Note," he says, pointing to a nearby table.

"Right," Compton says, sighing. He retrieves the note, setting Henry on the table. After he's done reading it, he picks up boy and says, "Well, let's hope Tom doesn't mind too-"

He jumps slightly at the reminder Tom is in the kitchen, but he quickly smiles the smile that makes Tom uncomfortable. "Ah, there he is. Henry, this is Thomas Tallis; he's a brilliant composer. Tom, this is Henry Hasting, son of Lady Anne."

"Composer," Henry repeats, carefully, staring at Tom.

"He writes music," Compton explains. At Henry's blank look, he says, "Those books with funny pictures that Edward looks at when he plays the piano? It's something like that. Though, the funny pictures Tom writes are what people look at when they sing as well as when they play the piano."

Henry nods, and then, waves. "Hullo, Sir Thomas."

"I'm not a-"

He's not quick enough, however, and the lord cheerfully interrupts, "Sir Thomas is going to be staying here for a while. What are the rules when there are guests, little Harry?"

"No stealing food from their plates, and no crawling into bed with them," Henry says, as if by rote, grumpily.

"And don't crawl into Sir Thomas's lap," Compton says. "It might scare him."

"I like Mister Brandon," Henry announces.

Motioning for Tom to follow, Compton says, "You're too young for sword fighting. And other things."

Tom must have some look on his face, for Henry explains, "Papa William wasn't happy that Mister Brandon was playing naked with a lady in bed. But I'm not too young for sword fighting! Father says I'll be breeched soon."

"No," Compton says, simply.

They come across a heavily pregnant servant woman who is darning socks, and she looks bewildered. "Sir, was I supposed to-"

"No," Compton answers, kindly, as he sets Henry down on the table. He hands the child a nearby ball of yarn. "Lady Hasting's newest child is suffering from colic. I'm guessing her husband is the one who dropped this little ruffian off." Henry sticks his tongue out, causing William to chuckle and ruffle his hair. "Watch him while Mister Tallis and I go to the stables."

"Yes, sir," the woman says, bowing her head.

...

Out in the stables, the lord apologises. "I'm sorry; I didn't know Henry was going to come. Mary, so far, has been a healthy baby, and Anne's husband doesn't want me around her."

"Are they yours," Thomas asks, telling himself it doesn't matter.

"Not by blood," Compton answers. "Though, I've been a better father to Henry, and even Catherine, than the Earl of Huntington has been." He sighs, bitterly.

Before Thomas can figure out the correct reaction, Compton immediately becomes his usual self. "But I've told you I've never bedded a woman before. Anne is my dearest friend, and my kindness extends towards all of her children, though I have a special bond with Henry. He's a delicate boy in a world that despises softness in men. One of his brothers, William, is already dead; a duel over some insult."

"I'm not sure if my lord is one to talk," Tom ventures. "You've been involved in several duels yourself."

Smiling softly, Compton says, "I'm sure you'll have children one day, Tom, and I'm sure there will be things you've done that you pray they never do. I don't want Henry to grow up to duel and backstab. He can be a lawyer or a merchant or a priest."

"Cardinal Wolsey is a fine example of priests who backstab," Tom points out. Immediately, he mentally berates himself. All his life, he's known he must be careful what he says around the rich, especially in regards to the other rich. What he just said could result in missing several body parts, the rest buried in a shallow grave.

Compton simply shrugs. "I like Wolsey," he says, sitting down. "He helped save Brandon's worthless life when he idiotically married Princess Mary. Besides that, his daughter is precious."

"You like children," Tom realises aloud, wondering why such a thing is so hard to process. Compton has always seemed so two-faced; warm around his friends, yet, at the same time, distant from everyone, including them. Tom supposes Compton sees something of a kindred spirit in him; he realises his own shyness is a hindrance but cannot help but be distant from others. Just as he can care deeply, the same must be true of Compton.

"Children don't scare me as much as adults do," Compton answers. "They require so much more, but most of them, so long as you provide food and shelter and show them affection, are not judgemental of your faults."

"Do I scare you, my lord?"

"More than you can ever imagine," Compton answers, reaching over and taking Tom's hand in his own. "Why do you persist in addressing me so formally?"

Unsure how to answer delicately, Tom leans down and kisses him. It's another bad idea, he knows. One kiss, and he gave much more than he should have. With each following kiss, he continues to do so.

...

"Was I your first?"

Tom pauses, his body, so nicely relaxed, tensing. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," Compton answers, stroking him. "This goes deeper."

"How can it," Tom inquires, pointedly, not liking where the conversation is going.

Lord Compton isn't the first. The first time he explored his body with another boy, he was twelve, and the other boy was around his age, perhaps a little older or younger. When he was sixteen, he made the choice to go to bed with a visiting priest; he hadn't wanted anything but to see if he was truly more inclined towards men rather than women. The other boy soon left the village for reasons Tom can't remember, and the priest insulted him by leaving money and muttering about Hell.

The truth is, though, Compton is the first person he's felt himself feeling so deeply towards. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he greatly respected the music teacher who came to the village. Yet, what he finds himself increasingly feeling is not platonic, familial love nor simply intense respect and admiration. What he feels is going deeper, and for all the social protocols he doesn't know and lack of understanding he has of the inner workings of other people, he's no fool; he knows this literally cannot go deeper, even if it does.

"It just does," is the simple answer. His hand settles on the small of Tom's back. "One thing I've never been afraid of is my feelings."

"I suppose being a favourite of the King will give a person that security," Tom mutters.

"On the contrary," Compton replies, seriously. "People favoured by the King must be very careful which feelings they express. It can make them afraid of the feelings themselves. Perhaps, never being afraid isn't the most accurate. I mean, despite fears I might occasionally harbour, I am determined that I will acknowledge and accept all of my feelings, privately if not publicly, no matter how scary or contrary to my wishes they might be."

Tom sighs.

...

"Why do you call Lady Hasting your wife?"

"I'm more of a husband than her wedded one is," Compton answers as they walk around the garden. "A better father, as well. When William died, he only cared that his son had lost the duel. I was the one who helped her mourn for her boy. When Catherine got in a fix by a married man, he wanted to cut her out of the family. I was the one who found her a good husband and paid the dowry."

Before Tom can respond, Compton glances over. "I don't tell you this to make myself look good, Tom. Anne is the one person I've ever met who sees me and loves me without wanting to change me. And I do the same for her, except when it comes to her current husband. She and her children would be better without him. If I could kill or otherwise dispose of him, I would, and I'd wed her."

"I suppose your honesty is refreshing," Tom muses, more to himself than the lord.

"I've never lied to you, and I never will," Compton replies, reaching over to stroke Tom's hand.

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself saying, "Then, tell me honestly why you have such an interest in me. No flattering words, no declarations of words, just the plain truth."

They come across a bench, and Compton motions for him to sit. Once they have, he says, "I'll try to answer as best I can. I don't fully know why. When I first laid eyes on you, I thought you were beautiful, but there are many people of great beauty at the court. I listened to your music, and I was impressed. Though, there are many talented people there, as well. But when I talk to you, when I'm in your presence, something feels right inside me. In a way, it's similar to what I have with Anne, though I've never desired her body the way I desire yours. You have an interesting mind, Tom, in ways that goes beyond your musical talents, and a kind heart."

He bites down the sudden urge to say, _I love you_.

In truth, he doesn't know if he does. When he's not so conscious of their class difference, he feels the sense of rightness, too. William Compton has always struck him as an interesting man, and the man's kindness, the type he doesn't make a show of, draws Tom even closer to him. Sharing the man's bed has made him happy he didn't continue holding onto his resistance.

Is any of that love, though?

...

Later, while William –might as well dispense of the formalities- is busy with a servant, Henry appears while Tom is playing the piano. Disregarding the rules, he climbs into Tom's lap, offering up a strip of softened meat.

"No, thank you," Tom says, unsure how to handle a child in his lap.

"Will you play music about stars when Mary comes over? That helps her stop crying."

"If Lady Hasting brings your sister over, I'll be happy to," Tom answers, carefully, unsure if he should start inwardly panicking or not.

Nodding, Henry finishes the strip of meat. "Then, I give you my blessing. Mama says that you're a good man, that you once helped her carry some books when she was at court, but I wanted to see for myself."

"That's very kind of you," Tom replies, bemused.

Unimpressed, Henry informs him, "Papa William doesn't play naked with Mama, but he's my real papa. He's Mary's, too. You don't have to like me, but you better always be nice to her and Mama. We were here first."

"Yes," Tom acknowledges. Realising he's treading on very dangerous ground, he asks, "Do you- what do you think I am to Lord Compton?"

"I don't know if you play naked with him, but he loves you like he loves Mama," Henry informs him. "Cardinal Wolsey says that he's like the Greeks and Romans when it comes to men, 'cause he loves Mama but doesn't really want to marry her. I think he might want to marry you, but since the two of you aren't Greek or Roman, you can't. But if play music about stars, Mary will smile at you, and you can teach me to read the pictures."

Tom wonders if anything was ever so simple for him as a child. In all of his memories, he was always a serious boy, never understanding how his classmates never seemed to share the same curiosity he did towards things, content to accept things without thought.

He starts to respond, only to be interrupted by William's reappearance. "Now that that's- Henry Hasting, what-"

"It's alright," Tom assures him, giving him a look. "My Lord Henry was simply informing me his sister is soothed by music about the stars."

William sighs, but as he reaches over to extract the little boy, there's an undeniable fondness in his eyes. "Come on, little Harry. Let's deliver you to Sally; the baby's hurting her stomach more than usual. We'll see if your touch will soothe it."

As he carries him away, Henry announces, "I think I like Sir Thomas. Does he have any children?"

"No," William answers, not turning around. As he continues walking, he says, softly, likely believing Tom is unable to hear him, "But if I can convince him to love me, I'm sure he'll love you and Mary as I do. That'll make you both as good as his."

Closing his eyes, Tom hears music, the feeling of rightness settling even deeper in his bones.

Whether love or not, it's time he stop trying to restrain himself from whatever his feelings towards William Compton are. It might be an unfixable mistake on his part, but the time for caution is over.


End file.
